


Sense of You

by kataurah



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Introspection, Oral Sex, Romance, Sexual Fantasy, Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension, repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:48:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23287300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kataurah/pseuds/kataurah
Summary: Phryne and Jack's experiences of each other, through the five senses.
Relationships: Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 87





	1. Jack

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost of a work I'd previously taken down. I can't believe I wrote this 3 years ago! Hope it was worth putting back up...

**Sight**

Other coppers like to talk big about _policeman's intuition_ , gut feeling, but Jack, as a general rule, usually tries not to judge a person on first appearances. That's not to say that he doesn't trust his instincts, but following the facts and evidence is how he operates. But when he first laid eyes on the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher, sweeping through his crime scene and into his life like a hurricane, his mind screamed that she was trouble with a capital T, and she has yet to prove him wrong in that first assessment.

Of course she is a sight to behold, stunning and immaculate always. Jack has seen her tackle criminals, duck from bullets, break into buildings, and emerge without a hair out of place. Her eyes are forever sparkling with mischief, alight with joy and curiosity about the world around her, boldly painted lips curling into wicked smiles that draw men in helplessly like moths to a flame.

Everything about her is enticing and vibrant and Jack has never known anyone more _alive_.

He's admired her body: the toned curves of her wrapped in the most beautiful and luxurious fabrics like a second skin; her own skin like smooth alabaster, off set dramatically by her dark  
silky hair and the deep red of her lipstick. But these are details that anyone can see, would be blind not to. Jack enjoys the privilege of _knowing_ her instead; well enough to learn to read her expressions and moods, her body language and her idiosyncrasies. He tells himself it makes them more effective as a working unit, and it's true; it helps to be able to see her tensed and coiled and know that she's about to throw herself into a hail of bullets. But really it's more than that. It's the natural way they fall into synch now, having formed their own silent language from visual cues.

As hard as Phryne makes it for him to be around her sometimes, Jack wouldn't trade the comfort of easy familiarity between them for anything.

**Sound**

At one time, Jack knows, she must have had a Collingwood accent, flat vowels, a slight drawl, but elocution and time in England has sharpened her voice into tones as immaculate as the rest of her. He has heard her speak high and clipped, and low and sultry. He's heard her sing beautifully (of course), her voice slipping into harmony with his as naturally as they do anything else together (and he can't help but wonder just how far that compatibility extends...)

Still, Jack fancies he can hear it sometimes, when she's tired or upset and not bothering to hide it; moments that are precious to him because she trusts him enough to not always be that whirlwind of energy and fearlessness when she's with him. Moments where he aches to take her in his arms but doesn't because he knows she wouldn't appreciate being coddled; if she wants his comfort, she'll ask for it.

He's long stopped denying (to himself, at least) that he doesn't love the sound of his name falling from her luscious lips, that he hasn't catalogued all the ways she says it. "Hello, Jack!" Her customary greeting, entirely too bright and enthusiastic for a crime scene. She'll say it with fondness and impatience, with disappointment and amusement. She'll draw it out when she wants something, when she's trying to worm her way into his good graces, always stepping inappropriately close (but he never backs away, does he?) And sometimes she'll say it like he is an utter delight to her, like he is wonderful, and those are his favourite _Jacks_ so far.

 _So far_ , because the part of him that he tries not to let intrude whilst working with her, wants to hear her cry his name in pleasure, to hear her sigh and moan with abandon. Jack wants to be the one to draw those noises from her, and he suspects - no, he _knows_ \- she wouldn't be shy in letting him hear her.

**Smell**

"I was as quiet as a mouse!" She pouts, approaching him from behind on Queenscliff pier in the small hours of the morning, and Jack smiles at having caught her out.

"A mouse who wears French perfume."

To know the particular scent of a woman, Jack feels, is decidedly intimate and entirely improper for their relationship as it stands. But everything about Phryne is improper, as she'd be the first to tell you, and as she drifts into his personal space so do her smells. Jack learns them, they envelope him (but never overpower) and settle in his memory; that place in the mind where scent can evoke the most powerful of recollections.

Therefore he can detect the slightest notes of Phryne's perfume on the sea air. He's familiar with the floral shampoo she favours from the way she will turn her head and flick her hair, the way it brushes his face when they both lean close to examine evidence. Beneath those though, covered, is _her_. The musk of her skin and the slight tang of her sweat that Jack hasn't had anywhere near enough of. Smells that are at their strongest when she's buzzing from adrenaline and the thrill of the chase, or the one and only time he's carried her in his arms, succumbing to drugs and fear.

Scent is something primal; animals will mark their territory and their mates with it, and therefore Jack knows it calls to one's most basic nature. He likes the thought of her perfume lingering on him after spending the day with her, or after a night cap of an evening, and likewise, that maybe she still carries a hint of his aftershave on her person after he's taken his leave. He doesn't want to mark his territory or claim her (as if he ever could) but he's only human, and, as much as it pains him, she's already claimed a much more vulnerable part of him.

Which is why, obviously, the most pleasurable thought is that of their scents combined, mingling on rumpled bedsheets, the heady smell of sex in the air...

Phryne smiles that playful, devilish smile, hair fluttering in the sea breeze, that tells him whatever she's about to say will be flirtatious and entirely deserved. She does not disappoint:

"I'll wear less next time."

  
**Touch**

  
Phryne Fisher is very much a physical creature, free with her touch, and seems to take up far more space when she enters a room than she actually occupies. She bestows casual touches upon friends, family, and lovers alike, and so Jack is sure the significance of every brush of contact between them is entirely in his head. He wishes he were immune. That his heart didn't stutter a little every time she leans in close ( _so close_.) That it didn't feel like tiny sparks might jump from his skin against hers. He's a grown man, a man who's been married before, and Jack feels faintly ridiculous that merely taking Miss Fisher's hand makes his stomach flutter.

That feeling never goes away (as inconvenient as it is, he hopes it never does) but after a while it's as though the warmth of her body has always fit against his side. Like gravity has realigned between them and when she's not there it's just an empty vacuum next to him. Jack leans against the mantle and Phryne insinuates herself between his arm and body. She curls her hand into the crook of his elbow as they stroll together, beckons him ever closer with a whispered, "Jack, look!"

She perches on his desk, crossed legs sometimes tantalisingly uncovered and making his fingers twitch with the urge to run up the length of them. Up to her garters where she no doubt has a blade stashed away, and even further... Jack sways into her and she to him, and their dance, their _waltz_ , edges them closer in slow increments.

The thought of _being_ with her, of having permission to touch her everywhere and map out all that smooth ivory skin with fingers and mouth and tongue, is almost too much alone. It's  
overwhelming and ignites arousal coiling low in his belly, heat flushing through him. Should Phryne Fisher ever take him to bed, Jack sometimes fears he'd embarrass himself. The part of him that feels like a failure for his marriage falling apart thinks of her many lovers, the exotic and adventurous men she's usually drawn to, and wonders how he could possibly compare. Then he remembers the many, _many_ things he's thought of doing to her, the ways in which he's dreamed of taking her apart, to feel her whole body quaking against his, wrapped up in each other with him buried deep inside her, and Jack thinks maybe he could make up for any lack of prowess with sheer enthusiasm.

These are fantasies; it's far more likely that Phryne would be the one to reduce _him_ to a quivering mess. He'd be at her mercy, he'd let her do anything damned thing she pleased. She'd flay him raw and open, make him tremble down to his bones, wrap her hand around his heart like a vice, and pull him apart from the inside out. It's why he tried to draw lines before, back away before he fell irrevocably in love with her and would inevitably suffer the pain of losing her, to some reckless pursuit, to other men. But it was too late already. He wants her, and it is the most exquisite agony.

Phryne steps between his legs where he sits on the edge of his desk, loops the crumpled tie around his neck and tucks it into his collar with deft fingers, her touch a flickering flame over sensitive skin. Jack ducks his head to give her better access and let's her.

  
He will always let her.

  
**Taste**

  
He's tasted her once, only once, but it was enough to make Jack crave more ever since.

Jack tells himself wasn't a _real_ kiss; it didn't really count when he had an ulterior motive, even if she did kiss him back. Now he wants more than almost anything to kiss Phryne Fisher properly, thoroughly, focused on nothing but her and her mouth. His gaze is drawn to it every time, her lipstick makes it impossible to not to look. And once he'd kissed her it meant that he _remembers_ every time now too. Her soft, full lower lip that he's dying to trace with his tongue and gently (or not so gently) nip at. The tart traces of the wine she'd been nervously sipping hinting at the hot sweetness of her mouth.

Jack wishes he could have delved deeper, but there was the small matter of the armed murderer sitting a couple of tables away. A man who, in Jack's opinion, deserved what he got not only for killing those people, but for having Phryne Fisher in his life and not treating her like the rare and magnificent creature that she is. For trying to cage her when she needs to fly free.  
Jack would learn Phryne's taste diligently, as he has with every other aspect of her, and he'd do filthy things to her in the process. Things that his treacherous mind throws at him without warning that make the crotch of his trousers too tight and his throat run dry at the thought of them, but that he'd like to think the _Honourable_ Miss Fisher would thoroughly approve of. He wants to lick the salt from her skin and chase the scents of the most intimate parts of her.

He's thought about it whilst she's been perched on his side of the desk, sat so close, her skirts inching distractingly past her knees. How easy it would be to slide his hands up her legs, coax her to part them so he can shift over ever so slightly and situate himself between them.

In Jack's mind, Phryne looks down at him with eyes darkened with desire, only betraying her surprise with parted lips and breathless exhalations. It's his fantasy, so he is confident, controlled and he holds her gaze, thumbs drawing circles over the soft skin of her inner thighs, waiting for permission. When it is given (a silent, subtle nod as she bites her lip in anticipation) Jack flashes her a secret smile before he ducks down towards her centre, where the scent of her arousal is sharp and musky, and her (naturally) salacious lingerie is soaked already.

He touches her through the silk, thumb pressing just enough in the right place to make her legs fall open wider and a gasp sounds above his head:

" _Jack_."

He only just suppresses an answering groan upon hearing that.

Phryne leans back, steadying herself with one hand, whilst the other combs through his (previously) tidy hair until she's coaxed it back into curls, falling over his forehead, and Jack can't  
wait any longer. He hooks a finger in her underwear, pulling it aside and exposing her - pink, glistening, perfect - to his hungry gaze. Then he begins tasting her.

It's the most delicious thing, giving Phryne pleasure like this, and Jack sinks his mouth into her like she's a delicacy, savouring every lick, every suck of that small nub at the crown of her that makes her jerk and cry out. They're in his office, but it's his fantasy, so she can be as loud as she wants. It's mostly high breathless gasps of his name though, music to his ears and making him painfully hard. He slips one, two fingers inside her heat, his other hand curled around her hip, and crooks them forward, stroking in time with his tongue. He can feel her pleasure rising, her thighs trembling, building higher and higher until he glances up at her, sees her expression, head thrown back in ecstasy, and the helpless rumbling growl torn from his throat tips her over the edge.

She comes gloriously, her whole body quaking, hand tightening in the mess she's made of his hair, and Jack laps her up. When he finally withdraws and she comes down, Phryne looks down at him, panting and dazed, and trails her fingers down his cheek. There is so much weight in her gaze; it's not just heavy with desire but emotion too, unspoken but tangible, and it makes Jack's chest tighten as well as his cock throb, aching to be inside her.

Then Phryne smiles, brilliant and wicked, lightening the moment and promising that they are no where near done.

Jack licks his lips.


	2. Phryne

**Sight**

Her first and immediate thought upon clapping eyes on Detective Inspector Jack Robinson was that she wanted to ruffle his feathers, and that impulse has only grown over time. Jack is always so put together, so _serious_ , it was a revelation and a triumph for Phryne, the first time she managed to coax a smile from him. Jack's smiles make his face less severe, softening the angles (as much as Phryne loves the austere line of his jaw, the cut of his cheekbones, longs to trace them with her fingertips) a secretive twinkle in his heavy lidded gaze... Or perhaps that is just for her? Phryne dearly hopes so.

Jack's smiles can be subtle, fleeting things; an irrepressible twitch of amusement or fondness in the corner of his mouth. One must be well acquainted with Jack's mannerisms to catch some of them, and Phryne feels a deep sense of pride and privilege in knowing him well enough to see them. At the same time, she feels sad that so few people will look close enough at Jack Robinson to see that hint of playfulness lurking beneath his stern Inspector persona.

Phryne is a connoisseur of men; she unabashedly loves to look at them, and whilst Jack may not be the most beautiful, the most athletic, or by far the most exotic of the men she's known (or _known_ , if one wanted to get all biblical about it), he is certainly a fine specimen of manhood. Though she was robbed of seeing him dressed as a Roman soldier, the Mark Antony to her Cleopatra, she has the opportunity to feast her eyes on a little more flesh than he usually exposes when he strips down to his bathers on the beach at Queenscliff.

"You have that lean, hungry look." She'd said once, leaving him with a picnic basket of food, and it was the truth. Jack is all lean muscle; streamlined and wiry, and Phryne admires the subtle strength in his shoulders, arms and thighs as he and Hugh come jogging up the beach towards her and Dot.

But it is so rare a sight. Jack is forever covered up in three-piece suits, ties, hat and overcoat, and as dashing a figure as he cuts in them, it's getting to the point where a loosened tie, an unbuttoned collar, is enough to make Phryne flush with want. It's frankly Victorian, and irritates her as much as it stirs her, eyes drawn to the hollow of his throat, the barest tease of uncovered skin waiting for her to kiss, nip, suck, _mark_.

But no, Jack has drawn his line... Except Phryne has never met a line she wouldn't cross, and she is forever testing the limits of Jack's. She makes a place for herself inside his personal space and bestows deliberate, lingering looks and touches. Oh, Jack is well aware of what she's doing, he's a smart man after all - a detective, Phryne feels, should be an expert in reading body language - therefore it is telling that he doesn't raise any objections. After their brief disruption, and Jack's attempt to maintain some distance, their dance continued as it had before, except there is more weight to the heat in Jack's gaze, more meaning to the crackling tension in the scant space between them and the hidden smile that lives in the corner of his mouth.

It should be scaring her away; Phryne may be fearless in the face of nearly everything else, but _love_... Real, powerful, devastating love only strips you bare, and leaves you vulnerable to  
inevitable suffering.

She should be running, but Phryne is only being drawn closer, deeper, daring Jack Robinson to cross his line and meet her halfway.

**Sound**

  
Jack's voice, at the right timbre and volume, is nothing short of a caress in and of itself. It is deep and rough, and Phryne will never let him know just how much it affects her; she cannot make Jack aware that he has a secret weapon - an unfair advantage - that can so easily make her breathless with want.

He has his official "Inspector Robinson" voice: clear and authoritative, and (of course) failing at bringing her to heel where it succeeds with so many others beneath his command. He will always, unfailingly, call her "Miss Fisher" in this tone of voice, layers of exasperation, resignation and amused fondness seeping through depending on his mood. Jack's humour is bone dry; heavy sarcasm and keen wit that Phryne appreciates more and more as she uncovers the man behind the Inspector.

And it's when he is truly _Jack_ that he says her name - her first name alone - his smoke and whisky voice wrapping around the syllables, low and intimate and shiver inducing:

" _Phryne_."

In the privacy of her mind, Phryne calls it his bedroom voice; the man has no idea of the things he could do to her simply by murmuring words of adoration and wicked intent, that would have Phryne sighing and her body thrumming in anticipation. (Then again, he can talk about plant genealogy in that husky way of his, face only inches from her own, and make it sound seductive. Damn him.)

She wonders, far too often, what sounds she could draw from him. What rumbling groans and growls of pleasure would break through that meticulous self control of his. It's a small loss of control to begin with, when he unwittingly calls her Phryne; in moments where he doesn't think to be careful, it falls from his lips to reveal the true depths of his emotions - particularly when he's afraid for her, calling her name. It shouldn't please her as much as it does, nor make her stomach flutter pleasantly, to know how much Jack actually cares.

Phryne would have him cry her name in a far more desiring manner; she would have him begging, hoarse and breathless, and press open mouthed kisses to his throat to taste the vibrations. She would ride him until they were both exhausted and boneless with pleasure, then rest her head on his chest and listen to Jack's racing, aching heart.

But for now, Phryne lowers herself onto the piano stool next to him, watches his long, graceful fingers fill the air with tinkling notes, and let's the sound of his voice in harmony with hers wash over her.

"He of the dulcet tones" indeed.

**Smell**

  
For someone as well travelled as Phryne, the concept of home has never really been that of a particular building or physical living space, but rather the people who surround her every day, the people she loves. Here in Melbourne, home has become a bright "Morning, Miss!" Even if she almost always resents being woken, at least it's by her lovely Dot and her perfect-every-time cup of tea. It's the sound of Mr Butler pottering around in the kitchen, Jane's infectious smile, Mac's laughter and the smell of Bert's roll ups. Home is Cec's air of gentleness and good humour, and (for better or for worse) Aunt P's well meaning nagging. It has become Hugh's steadfast, loyal presence...

And Jack.

Scent can recall most powerfully to mind old memories; of friends and places and sometimes things best forgotten, for there are so many haunted by their memories of the war now. But Phryne knows if she is ever parted from Jack Robinson - and isn't that thought rather more painful than she imagined? - the subtle smell of his aftershave, or the pomade he uses to tame his hair, will be enough to bring him back to her, if only for a moment. Phryne would close her eyes and conjure the image of him, lose herself in those familiar smells, but it could never compare to the warmth of his body close to hers, and the musky, male scent that is entirely _Jack_ , that hides elusively beneath those cosmetic scents.

It is there, mixed in with the salt of the sea and damp wool, the night they drop off Queenscliff pier together, then make their way, heavy and sodden, back to the house. Phryne is shivering uncontrollably, her extremities numb, and Jack wraps an arm around her in a gallant - but ultimately pointless, given how they are both freezing in their wet clothes - gesture. Still, Phryne lets herself lean into him for support, curling a hand into the heavy soaked material of Jack's overcoat, and turning her face into his neck, away from the wind. She can smell Jack's skin, cold and clammy though it is when her nose brushes against the underside of his strong jaw; she feels him shiver and swallow at the contact and smiles to herself, watching the movement of his Adam's apple before her eyes and mouth watering at the thought of licking it.

"And to think," Jack says, suddenly, "Before I knew you, this would all seem rather farfetched and ridiculous."

Phryne draws back just a little to look at him: there's that small smile of fond exasperation in the quirk of his mouth, dancing in his eyes, that she's grown to adore. She smiles back,

"Before you knew me, Jack, wasn't it all terribly boring?"

A rare bark of laughter escapes him and he squeezes her a little tighter,

"It was, Miss Fisher. It was."

Phryne's own amusement at their current state is loud in the otherwise deserted four am promenade, and Jack shushes her, even as his deep chuckles reverberate through him and into her where they are pressed together.

Phryne just clutches him closer, and breathes him in.

**Touch**

  
Being near Jack is always an exercise in self restraint. No doubt Jack himself would raise an eyebrow at that statement, given how Phryne likes to press in close to feel the warmth radiating between their bodies, brush a flirtatious hand over his lapels or trace the pattern on his tie, but honestly, she is, in actual fact, holding herself back. And oh, as frustrating as it is to not be able to freely touch Jack, it also makes each time it happens heavy with meaning and subtext, like there is a tangible shift in the air. It makes Phryne revel in the slightest physical contact in a way she can't remember doing with anyone else, and savour the delicious anticipation of it happening again. It is somehow carnal and chaste at the same time: careful and sometimes tender, yet deliberate and simmering with the potential for _more_.

And how Phryne wants more. She's so starved for the feeling of Jack's skin against her own that she almost doesn't know where she would begin. She thinks, in her quest to eventually learn every inch of Jack Robinson in intimate detail, perhaps she would start where she left off: holding one of his larger hands in both of her own under the pretence of reading his palm. They really are quite lovely, Jack's hands; strong and capable, yet with those graceful, dexterous fingers that she's thought of putting to other pleasurable uses than just playing the piano. She'd let Jack play her body; let him learn how to make it sing.

Phryne would like to believe that they would be natural lovers, that, at this point, sex would be an extension of their partnership and friendship. It is for those very reasons however that nothing between them could be casual anymore, and the enormity of that scares her. Jack has become a fixture in her life and therefore could not, _should_ not, become merely a fleeting dalliance; an "old friend" to look back on fondly but ultimately just a flickering memory of brief pleasure. Jack deserves better than that, for all that they've become, and Phryne is not usually in the habit of thinking men _deserve_ anything from her. They are hanging on the precipice of something more - have been for a while now - each possibly waiting for the other to be "ready", and Phryne can't help but wonder just how long Jack would wait for her, or whether she is poised to lose him.

The thought pains her. Such is the bloody wretchedness of love, she thinks: damned if you do, damned if you don't.

It hurts to think of never knowing the feeling of Jack pressed against her, skin to skin; all those hard planes of muscle that Phryne has only ever caught a glimpse of, solid beneath her, or above her... deep inside her. God, the thought of Jack's heavy lidded gaze meeting her own, pupils blown huge with desire for her, hair thoroughly mussed by Phryne's hands, and looking the very picture of arousal and debauchery as his cock presses into her, achingly slowly.

Phryne would whisper a breathless, " _Yes_ ," and hook her leg around his hip, urging him on, but Jack will not be rushed. He takes his time, watching her intently, smiling a little at her impatience, and by the time he's fully seated inside her, filling her perfectly, he's shaking with restraint. Phryne tilts her hips upwards, desperate for him to move, almost whining his name, but Jack kisses her instead, so gentle and impossibly tender that Phryne feels a dangerous prickling behind her closed eyelids. She imagines this and feels an ache building in her chest that she knows goes beyond any sexual fantasy, and has everything to do with her love for this man; it's both terrifying and exhilarating, and it threatens to overwhelm her. How perfectly unbearable it is for someone to hold a person's heart in the palm of their hand.

Instead of letting it paralyse her, in her head, Phryne kisses him back fiercely, stoking those flames of passion between them once more, and this time, when she pushes up with her whole body and flips them over, Jack is more than happy to let her take the lead. He would be beautiful, sprawled out beneath her, completely at her mercy, but still watching her with those dark, discerning eyes. Jack would touch her, somehow both reverently and hungrily, and their bodies would fall into rhythm in the same way their minds have met their equal in each other, over and over again.

Somewhere in her head, unbidden, Phryne hears the Bard's words in Jack's voice:

"Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments..."

Indeed, Phryne means to have him, and to strip away all remaining barriers between them. Even if it means exposing and giving away her heart to the one man who would never ask it of her.

**Taste**

  
He stole a kiss from her once, but of course, because it's _Jack_ , it was for entirely logical reasons. ("I was trying to protect you," He says, and Phryne has to fight the urge to roll her eyes.) The first, and only, time she has tasted him, and Phryne hates that she was trembling for all the wrong reasons. She felt frankly appalled at herself for her body's betrayal in revealing her weakness, though Jack's reassurances didn't hold the slightest hint of condescension. The touch of his hand, the low rumble of his voice, comforted her up until the moment she laid eyes on René Dubois, and like a magnet she was unable to pull away. Jack simply had no _choice_ but to kiss her.

That's the story they're sticking with, anyway.

She remembers Jack's mouth, sudden and insistent, but not demanding. His hand gently cradling the back of her head, and for a brief moment, Phryne let herself get lost in the feeling of Jack's lips against hers, kissed him back in kind; he'd tasted like garlic butter.

When she faced down René, she had another man's taste in her mouth to remind her that she was no longer the woman he'd thought of as his property. And when she kisses Jack next, it will be through her own agency and for her own pleasure (and his, hopefully.) They were still newly acquainted when he'd kissed her in Café Réplique, and therefore it had been easy to brush aside. In Phryne's mind, it didn't count as their _real_ first kiss; that is yet to come, and it grows greater in significance the longer they both withhold.

When it finally happens, when all the emotion and desire brewing between them boils over, kissing Jack will taste of inevitability and surrender. Phryne will lick the salt of his skin as they move together in breathless abandon. She will swallow his gasps and moans of her name and seek out hidden places with lips, tongue and teeth that Jack himself had no idea were so sensitive.

She wonders if anyone has ever pleasured him with their mouth before? Phryne has never been one to judge or make assumptions about another woman's proclivities in the boudoir, nor about Jack's marriage, but she can't imagine Rosie as a particularly generous lover in that regard.

Perhaps she is just a little too biased.

Phryne _likes_ giving fellatio; she likes the power of reducing a man to a quivering, begging wreck. And she cannot _wait_ to do it to Jack. To see his eyes widen in a delicious mix of shocked propriety and desperate arousal. To hear his choked groan as she takes him into her mouth and sets about learning the taste and texture of him as he swells against her tongue. Phryne will take Jack Robinson apart and leave him ruined for any other lover (a voice in the back of her head whispers that she wants to keep him like this forever), and when the force of his orgasm ripping through him leaves him panting and trembling and smiling down at her with undisguised adoration, Phryne surges upwards to kiss him and share his taste and prevent those three momentous words from escaping off the tip of her tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos very much appreciated!


End file.
